Benedict Mused. Poem by Terry Collett

Benedict listened
to Thelonious
fingering out
Round Midnight.

That public house
off Charing Cross Road,
his old man
sipping a light ale
in a corner seat.

Colonel they call me:
the old man said;
Benedict looked at
the clipped moustache
and sad dog eyes.

All talk of
the Desert Rats
and Monty
and sand and winds
and free beer
now and then.

And that Irish woman
in the box office,
and him saying:
this is my son.

The woman
all glittering eyes
and broad smile.

Wonder if he had?
Wouldn't put it past.
Died years later alone
in some home
stroke and dead;
buried alone;
just a few staff members
at his funeral
and ashes scattered
in some numbered plot.

What year did he meet?
67, yes that year.

That girl in the club
above the Regent
eyeing him saying:
my boyfriend's
in the clink
for drugs
and I am in the hospital
drying out
come visit me.

Benedict did;
brought her cigarettes
and took her for a drink
down at the local pub
if the nurse permitted.

Thelonious Monk stopped.
Silence of the grave;
both his old man and Monk
gone now.

Looking back
colours it somehow.